no solace in idle conviction

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Beneath the tapestry, the Sword opted to stand, studying the complexities of walls and overhangs again, pondering if they’d done enough, reinforced enough, and if he should be doing more, more, more, and the restless energy seared over him again. Like fire and brimstone, like contorted, coiled preludes to disaster and ruin, when everything bunched and contorted within muscles and abominations, and he wanted, yearned, craved to unleash something other than his exasperation. Perhaps it was the close quarters and inability to rampage out into the evening, perhaps it was simply that he couldn’t go off to hunt, to wander, to seek out mountains pressed into the wakes of other portals. He released a hard-edged sigh, glancing over at Zuriel, tucked away by the hearth, and the meandering crowd, wondering, eyes narrowed as he found an unoccupied chair. A seething edge came over him, fingers gnarled together in fists, and he could feel the ruminations, the reverberations, of long lost blistering accord, like days spent along embers and anarchy, the twist and turn of revolution and sedition. Back when he could rampage into war and ash. Back when he could obliterate and devastate. Back when he could unravel plots and schemes, back when their Thieves, their cloaks, their daggers, were more than just words and phrases, but actions and consequences, vitriol and vehemence had purpose, had meaning. And as he turned his hands over, the rough calloused palms held flames – molten and hot, but his and his alone – eyes widening as he stared upon the blaze. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace